


Colors of Healing

by mosslover



Category: Poldark - All Media Types, Return to Treasure Island (TV 1996)
Genre: Conspiracy, Healing, Jim is not having it (he is stubborn too), M/M, Slow Burn, War Injuries, bionic arm au, hospital au, loss of arm (non-graphic), sci-fi/dystopian features, stubborn Ross (when is he not), there's a massive war conflict going on, unusual hair colors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 12:45:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13858050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mosslover/pseuds/mosslover
Summary: Jim's seen a lot since this conflict has started. But there's more to his newest patient than meets the eye and Jim finds himself helping Captain Ross Poldark in more ways than he imagined.





	Colors of Healing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Winter FRE 2018 by gathering FiKi  
> Prompt #32 - Hospital AU  
> Trying to get the first chapter in before the deadline :D  
> This fic has been in my head for quite some time now, feels good to be finally starting it!
> 
> Inspired by tweak-girl-stuff's glorious darkhawk art - you can find it [here](http://tweak-girl-stuff.tumblr.com/post/170575975052/thank-you-brandywinebridge-twentymiles-for-ask).

DAY 1

 

The shift was already well past the fifth level of hell and overtime when another transport announcement came on the intercom.

Jim had just tossed a bloodied set of gloves into the bin – the last patient’s wound that he had tried to clean off before a surgery had insisted on re-opening and the poor soldier had nearly vaulted off the gurney when Jim had pressed down on it to staunch the bleeding. It seemed the local anesthesia he had been given for transport had worn off.

Now Jim looked up at the blue-flashing lights, suspended from the ceiling, with tired resignation.

“I thought we were done?” He brushed a strand of hair back from his forehead, feeling with his other hand for a hair clip he hoped he had attached to the underside of his shirt in the afternoon, when he had been getting dressed. He was reaching the point of tiredness when loose strands of hair (and a lot of other things) started to seriously distract and annoy him. To his own relief, he felt one last clip there. He turned to his colleague, Anne. “I must have lost count somewhere after transport five…”

She gave him an amused glance, the happy lines around her mouth pronounced due to exhaustion. “I think you’ve been smelling too many chemicals these days and it’s addled your brain,” she snickered. “This is transport number nine, THE last one if nothing’s changed in the meantime…”

She snatched a pair of new gloves from the dispenser, popping them on. He secured his errant hair strand and followed suit, and then they were both moving towards the incoming hover-van, long purposeful strides taking them down the hallway. Others from the shift’s team joined behind them, having prepped the previously accepted patients for whatever awaited them next – surgery, recovery, further transfer. Three were headed straight to the morgue – they hadn’t made it through the trip from the battle lines. And that was without counting the ones who had died on the battlefield proper; those would go directly to the body lockers and then show up at their home stations and in the statistics that were reported on the news every morning.

At the end of the corridor, the thick glass double door slid open, its wings staying in place for ease of moving through. Warm, humid air with a salty tang seeped in around the people in pale yellow uniforms who were already wheeling in the first of the final injured.

“What in the world have they been doing up on the line today?” Jim muttered as the stream of more maimed, moaning, or unconscious human beings on stretchers went past him. “This is a fucking free-for-all…”

One of the Rapid HoverTransport workers, a cheerful, short fellow with a deceptively young face and huge, dark blue pools of eyes, spotted Jim and nodded at him. “Here we go again, Hawkins,” he called out, a smile, though a bitter one, forming around his wide mouth. “I swear they wouldn’t stop coming in today. What a bloody mess.”

“Bloody mess alright,” Jim conceded, meeting Ben by the glass door. “I’m on my fourth scrubs, it’s like slaughterhouse. What the hell has been going on up north?”

“From what I know, there was a hell of a situation at one of the entry points.” Ben strode towards the transport’s back door which was wide open. “Someone fucked up royally and it wiped out nearly one entire company and half-shredded the next one that went in to recover them.” Jim could see that Ben was worn out; he’d probably seen the resulting body count first hand, seen the people that never made it this far.

“Wiped out a whole company?” he asked, following Ben to the back of the transport.

Ben nodded grimly as the second-to last patient was wheeled off, a hastily bandaged gash on his head leaking blood, the man’s eyes glassy. Still, he hissed as the wheels of the gurney touched the ground and Annie, who had come out after Jim into the warm night air, soothed the man automatically as she scanned his chart with her bracelet. Leaning over him, she started alongside him back towards the building. The patient looked pale, barely aware of anything other than his pain.

Ben climbed up into the hovering vehicle, moving up to the final stretcher that still remained. “Here, give me a hand, Jimmo.” He sounded subdued as he scanned off the patient’s chart which was attached to the gurney, and then released the stretcher from where it was attached to the van’s wall, shifting the man towards Jim. “This one’s given us some trouble upon arrival, FYI. Had to sedate him, he wouldn’t stop shouting at us to tend to his men first, almost fought off two nurses when they wouldn’t leave him alone. The bastard had lost an arm and nearly his leg and he wouldn’t hear a word of reason.” Ben sighed. “Didn’t have the heart to tell him that there wasn’t much left of his men to tend to. Most of them had come back in pieces…”

Jim bit his lip. “Fuck.” He looked down at the guy, or what was visible of him: under the heated blanket and the rags that remained of his blue-grey Cornwallis Army outfit, Jim could make out the stump of the left arm, ending right below his elbow. His right leg, loosely covered with gauze, stuck out from underneath the teal cover that kept him from going into shock: the exposed toes were intact but sprinkled with blood and right around the ankle, Jim could tell that a real battle zone was happening.

“He seems to have gotten hit bad himself,” he remarked. He noted the man’s wrapped head, turned to one side to take pressure of what must have been a facial wound on the left. His helmet was gone; a mess of short, dark, sweat-dried curls stuck out in all directions above the bandage. “Any other wounds? Concussion?” Jim asked.

“No wounds, and doesn’t appear to be concussed,” Ben shook his head. “But take care when he wakes up. He’s as strong as a bull and I suspect,“ he glanced down at the prone man, blue eyes lit with compassion, “I suspect it will hit him hard once he learns the full truth about his unit. You can tell him, though, that we did take care of all of his soldiers first. The five of them that were left alive, that is.”

Jim nodded, somber. They took care to land the wheels softly on the smooth tiles that lead into the building and Jim scanned the man’s chart with his bracelet to confirm casualty takeover. A set of data appeared on the tiny screen: “Cpt. R.V. Poldark, 42nd/305th, age 28, 189 cm/82 kg, O-. The most recent vitals followed as Jim started moving the gurney back inside the rear-attachment hospital. Just like the information flashing on the green display, Jim’s brain began rapidly lining up all that the patient might need before the OR would take him over.

Ben accompanied him in; now that the transports seemed to be over for the night, he would pop in for a cup of tea and maybe a hot breakfast if he was lucky.

“Well, I hope I won’t see you for a while now, no offense,” Jim said as they neared the intersection of hallways where their paths would divide.

“None taken,” Ben grinned in understanding. “Though I do hope next time I see you, you’ll have gotten rid of that monstrosity.” He gestured towards Jim’s hair, and Jim snickered.

“What, you don’t like it?”

Ben grimaced as if he was trying to be polite and couldn’t find a way to manage it. “Let’s just say, this particular shade is not my favorite.” It was said in good humor.

Jim laughed. “Ah yeah, it’s a bit too bright for my own taste,” he conceded, then shrugged. “If things go well, it’ll be a so far unspecified shade of green in a few days.”

Ben flashed him a smile, giving Jim a pat on his shoulder in farewell. “Not sure if that’s what I’d call an improvement, but fingers crossed anyway. You almost blinded my eyes last week with this one. I never know what to expect any more when I get here.”

“That’s part of the fun,” Jim laughed, then wheeled Cpt. Poldark’s unconscious form around the corner into the surgery prep. Thank goodness the shift was almost over, he thought as he checked the state of the IV drip and hooked Poldark to a heart monitor. Steady lines of a strong heart materialized on the screen, though the pulse was jittery and blood pressure a little unsteady as the body in front of Jim tried to cope with the massive injuries it had sustained.

Jim took a look at the leg wound but there was nothing he could do. The ankle part especially was a mess: flesh and bone exposed, skin torn. It was as clean as it could be, the bleeding staunched for now; they would have to sort everything else in the operating room.

He looked at the man under his hands again: one year older than Jim, and now he would have to live with life-changing injuries. There were already so many like him as the conflict stretched on, so many Jim had tended himself as the years wore on. And yet Jim paused as he pondered Cpt. Poldark, who even in his drug-induced sleep seemed to have a commanding presence. Ben’s words echoed in his mind: how the man refused to be taken care of until all his men were. That kind of dedication of an officer to his men was not seen very often.

The door of the operating room slid open and the chief OR nurse strode out, heading straight for Jim. She was an older woman, shorter than Jim and with an air of authority. “I’ll take him over now. Did they say why they held him back?”

Her chart, already updated with the latest arrivals and prioritized by urgency, showed Cpt. Poldark’s name at the very top.

“He apparently insisted,” Jim informed her, nodding towards the patient, and she raised her dark eyebrows which were streaked with grey just like her chin-length hair.

“Well, now I insist he goes with me,” she replied. “Not that he can protest much right now.” She scanned him off and Jim watched her go, the patient unaware that his wishes were not being honored anymore. But here, he had no say as to who would go first and who would go last. Not while he was unconscious, in any case.

Anne appeared right next to Jim, her voice carrying that note of resigned exhaustion that spoke of ten hours on their feet and too much human suffering behind them. Her head-wound charge seemed to have been taken in as well now and she was already stripped down to her white undershirt.

“Well, I guess it’s out of our hands for now,” she said pensively. “Come on, before some other calamity gets announced and we don’t get even the six hours of sleep we’re due.”

Jim nodded. Faint hunger nudged at his awareness but he needed rest now most of all, more than anything else.

Tomorrow, it was all going to start anew.

 

 

DAY 2

 

The shrill sound of Jim’s alarm tore him straight out of heavy sleep. He groped sluggishly, limbs heavy and muscles still laced with a trace of exhaustion that lingered like a drug in his system, to shut the annoying sound off. Another two hours would have been nice. No, make that seven…

He recalled that somewhere in his near future there was a seven day leave he was planning on spending mostly with eyes closed and not moving. It was a blissful prospect, one that he much relished.

But until then, since they were chronically understaffed to the point of breaking, decent rest was one luxury no one could afford.

He forced himself to roll sideways out of bed. The window curtains, which slid open with the press of a button by the lamp, let the bright rays of a sunny day well in progress penetrate inside. Walking to his small bathroom and splashing water on his face, Jim could just picture the view: the trees now in full bloom along the white-sand beach, the sea rolling in and out and forming a blue hazy line on the distant horizon.

From here it looked peaceful, as if a never-ending fight wasn’t raging just seventy klicks north of here.

Jima dried his face off with a worn-out terry towel, then snickered at the sight of himself in the mirror. Ben was right: this particular hue was rather jarring to the eye. No wonder his supervisor seemed more and more frustrated with Jim every day: not only did he have a knack for irreverent honesty where she preferred careful diplomacy and decorum; now he also insisted on sporting a different hair color every few weeks, each crazier than the one before. And what was worse – she couldn’t quite be angry with him because of why he was doing it, and neither could she forbid him from continuing. He was a civilian in what was originally meant to be a military-staff-only installation, but now they needed anyone who would fill a post. So Jim was here, a perpetual thorn in her side.

After shaving in a hurry, he took off what passed for pajamas in the solitude of his room - boxer shorts and an old t-shirt from college. He stepped into the shower and shampooed his hair, then rinsed it with practiced efficiency. The water wasn’t orange-tinted anymore; that was a relief.

He wished he could stay under the warm spray of water indefinitely, but alas, there was no time. The next shift was not going to fill itself – well, it wouldn’t be full anyway, but if he failed show up on time, Silver would throw a hissy fit and find a way to cut his leave. Plus, Jim needed to be on her good side, as far as he could inch onto it, if he wanted her to sign off on his physical therapy training. So far, she had refused all his monthly requests. He couldn’t quite blame her – she really did not have enough people here. Though he had a feeling that the rejection gave her personal satisfaction, and that made it extremely hard to be as polite as he needed to be.

With a sigh, he shut off the water. After drying himself off rather aggressively, he checked whether his laundered scrubs had been delivered; if not, he was in serious trouble after having used all of his remaining ones yesterday. Showing up at the briefing in sweatpants would probably make Silver go off like a grenade, and that was the last thing anyone needed.

Luckily, the green case in his delivery chute was full of clean and ironed nurse uniforms and Jim quickly pulled on the top pair. The clothes smelled of bleach and other chemicals, with a faint artificial scent of spring mountains or sunset beach or whatever was in supply right now, but they were as familiar to Jim now as his own skin.

He tamed his hair a little and then headed out, donning his bracelet and a grim determination to make it through whatever this day would dish out.

 

 

The news columns, installed on each table in the cafeteria, brought details of the gruesome events that had resulted in Jim’s prolonged shift from last night. The carnage had apparently been significant enough that the media expected people to care; most of the citizens were now too numb to the horrors of the war to give reports from the entry lines more than a passing glance.

On a typical day, Jim was the same; he would barely skim the screen that flashed news highlights at him while he ate. But it wasn’t every morning that one of his patients headlined the day’s reports; the reference caught Jim’s eye as soon as he sat down by the glass wall that offered a grand view of the hospital’s side docking lot and the patch of wind-beaten grass next to it that tried to look like a park.

‘ _Officer under scrutiny after charge at entry point B59 leads to slaughter_ ’ was the top item in the line-up. Reaching over his lukewarm leek soup in which soggy croutons floated with no real enthusiasm about making the meal appear more palatable, he tapped the headline with the pad of his index finger.

With a dark sense of premonition, he watched as the article unrolled on the screen. “ _Cpt. Poldark, the decorated yet somewhat controversial commanding officer of the 42 nd company of 305th battalion, has managed to nearly erase his unit from the battalion roster after yesterday’s disaster at one of the most contested enemy entry points. According to our reports, only six men – including Cpt. Poldark himself - had been recovered alive after the failed operation, and they are currently being tended to at RAAH 8. The 53rd company, sent in to retrieve the fallen, also sustained heavy losses._

_While some hail the Captain as a bold and courageous leader who takes personal interest in his men’s well-being, others describe him as reckless and unpredictable, with a penchant for disregarding orders. Whether the truth falls on either side of these opinions or somewhere in the middle, it is certain that in the wake of such devastating loss of life, the Captain and his actions last night on the battlefield will be scrutinized in great detail by the 305 th’s command.”_

The report continued with more grim accounts of the night’s events, as well as personal accounts of the captain from his immediate superiors and a few soldiers who had served under him. Jim’s eyes, however, were drawn to the photo of Captain Poldark that supplemented the article. It was an official photograph, taken in full regalia, and the ribbons and medals made it even harder to reconcile the handsome man it depicted with the person Jim had received from the hover-van early this morning. Granted, Jim had not seen much of the man’s face then; half of it had been covered by layers of gauze. But the dark curly hair definitely matched what he’d seen on the stretcher.

What he had not been prepared for at all were the striking and distinctly handsome features the unfortunate Captain sported in the photo. Jim was a professional through and through and would never allow himself to have feelings for a patient, but the man’s face and the singularly focused and direct look in his eyes were immediately attractive to him. It hit him like a punch to his stomach, a sensation he couldn’t possibly blame on the soup in front of him, though the culinary experience it provided was far from stellar.

He studied the face in the picture, admiring the features with what he told himself was natural curiosity. And though the rest of the article was waiting to be read, Jim had a tough time tearing his eyes away from captain Poldark’s direct gaze and focusing on the remaining paragraphs.

The soup, likewise, proved very hard to finish.

 

When Jim reported for his afternoon shift, Anne was already at the nurse station. She was a civilian worker as well, and had taken Jim under her wing shortly after his arrival, which allowed them to fall into an easy, though mostly superficial, friendship.

Today, Anne looked just as not-quite-rested as everyone else, giving Jim a quick smile while everyone waited for the rundown of what they could expect during the shift. She was clutching a paper cup full of coffee like it was a permission slip for unlimited leave, and Jim slid in beside her, tucking his hands in his pockets and hoping this day actually would not be stupidly busy.

The 1 pm briefing for once lived up to its name and stayed short. There were no scheduled transports coming in as of yet, so they could actually focus on yesterday’s patients and helping them settle in properly.

Jim’s supervisor, First Sergeant Jenna Silver, limited herself to only one sour look at Jim’s colorful hair as she sent out patient assignments. Jim’s included the last two patients he had received the night before, one of which was the unfortunate captain. Jim was about to acquaint himself with their status and head into their rooms when Silver pulled him aside, and this time she did not waste time with disagreeable glances at his styling choices. Instead, she checked the large clock on the wall and consulted the tablet she carried for updates, Captain Poldark’s chart opened on her screen.

“I’m assigning you to Poldark because you’re capable and he might prove a bit of a challenging patient. If you haven’t read the news from B59, you should.” She paused, refreshed her screen with a quick jab at a button. “He hasn’t woken up yet from anesthesia and we are supposed to inform the 305th’s headquarters as soon as he does. No one else is allowed in to talk to him – other patients, journalists, family, anyone – until permission has been given by his command. No phone calls either. After you take him over, you’re the only one allowed in besides the doctor on rotation and me. Understood?”

Jim frowned at the onslaught of instructions, but gave a curt nod in response. “Understood.”

“Excellent,” she said. “Well, head on over, then. Your other patient is finishing surgery and shouldn’t need you just yet, and Poldark could wake up at any time.” She did sacrifice a second of her time to raise an eyebrow at his hair, as if she pitied Poldark for waking up to that sight, of all things that could possibly bother him upon regaining consciousness. Then she turned on the heel of her tightly laced boots and walked off.

Jim consulted the room chart and then headed straight for 78A where his apparently restricted patient resided for now. Imposed isolation measures like this were not unheard of but these orders about Poldark had come fast and furious and the battalion seemed to mean business. He wondered how long it would take the press to show up, smelling blood and higher hit counts.

Well, there was plenty of the first to be found around here. As for the hit counts, they’d have to get through Silver first, and Jim very much doubted any of the journalists had gotten up early enough for that.

 

 

It was quiet and cool in room 78A. The lights were dimmed to spare the patient’s eyes once he did come out of the post-operative sleep, the blinds on the window shut closed. Jim acknowledged Bonnie, the attending nurse, with a nod, but his eyes were drawn immediately to his charge lying under blue covers on the hospital bed.

Poldark’s face, intense to the point of frowning in the newspaper photograph, looked almost serene now. Except, that is, for the taped-on bandage that ran from his left eyebrow to below the corner of his mouth. More of the captain’s features were revealed to Jim now than the night before: a slender nose, symmetrical dark arches of eyebrows, a pale mouth surrounded by a dark shadow of emerging whiskers. The face was framed rather nicely by a strong jaw and a high, smooth forehead that lead to the curls Jim remembered from admissions; though they appeared cleaner and more organized than last night, they still gave off the impression of barely contained chaos.

Jim’s gaze slid lower, to where Poldark’s left arm lay on top of the standard issue blanket. The limb ended abruptly below the elbow, layers of gauze covering the wound.

 _Poor handsome bastard_ , Jim thought. He’s in for one hell of a wake-up, and an orange-haired nurse will be the least of it.

“Five and a half hours in surgery,” the attending nurse, Bonnie, interrupted Jim’s thoughts. “He’s bound to wake up pretty soon, not that he will be happy once he does. Though they did save his leg in the end. It took a while, apparently; Flint said the guy’s lucky Dr. Summers was on shift. He apparently escaped being a double amputee by a hair, mostly thanks to Summer’s patience reserves. Or stubbornness.”

Jim glanced at her. “He was lucky, alright. What meds is he on?”

Bonnie’s gaze trailed over the sleeping form on the bed and the various monitors that reported on his heart activity, pulse, breathing, and other vitals, as if she was checking once more that all was in the best order it could be. “The usual cocktail. It’s all in the chart. Oh, I already gave him a wash-down and tried to comb his hair, but you can see if you have any better luck with it.”

She walked over to the bed and scanned herself off so Jim could take over and get all the information onto his bracelet. Once they were done, she gave him a look of professional sympathy.

“Well, good luck with this one when he comes to.”

“Yeah,” Jim said. “I’ll do my best.”

And he would, though it was never a cheerful position, being the first person there when a soldier woke up from a trauma with such lasting consequences. He had gotten more practiced at it over time, but that didn’t mean it was any easier with each new patient. It wasn’t. In fact, Jim was starting to get convinced that as the string of maimed and burnt and disfigured soldiers grew longer, it was more and more grating to face yet another.

He heard Bonnie leave the room, the door sliding shut behind her. Jim took the time to immerse himself in the operation notes and the list of current medications and treatment suggestions. He leaned against a supply cabinet as he read, the walls of the room isolating the space from the bustle of the intensive care area and rendering it almost peaceful. The only sounds he could hear were muffled footsteps as someone passed by the door, along with the whirring and beeping of the machines that stood guard over his patient.

Captain Poldark continued to sleep, as if aware that once he woke up, a hell of a new sort would await him. Jim’s eyes flickered to him once in a while as he studied the chart; then Silver’s face popped through the sliding door without a warning.

“Status?” she said briskly.

“Still out,” he replied, looking up at Poldark to see if there were any changes. “Is the other patient out of OR? I suppose I have time to go check on him or her now.”

Silver narrowed her eyes, thinking fast. “Actually, I’m de-assigning you from that one, Farruk can take her over. I heard there were some journalists lurking around the hospital and who knows what they might try to get a story. I want you to stay here.”

So, it hadn’t taken long at all for the media to follow the blood trail. Though it wasn’t very surprising; after all, it wasn’t every day that over seventy men lost their lives like this.

Jim nodded understanding. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the captain on the bed. It seemed a bit of a witch hunt was starting and he was the hunted.

 

 

Silver had gone and Jim had double and triple-checked he had all the possible supplies he might need on hand. He switched the man’s catheter bag and got a new IV drip going for him with the prescribed meds. He checked with the doctor on rotation, Stevens, who didn’t seem concerned Poldark was not yet awake; he told Jim, however, to page him as soon as he was up. Jim got himself a snack and a bottle of vitamin water via the room order chute and settled in on a chair by the window, cracking the blinds open a tad and intermittently watching the sea outside shift and roll and Poldark’s vitals. The unexpected change from a typical day was not unwelcome: it was unusual to have time to sit during a shift and Jim savored every minute of it.

It was an hour and forty minutes into the shift when a low groan emitted from the bed, followed by the rustle of hair against a pillow. Jim, who had battling the urge to doze off in the warmth of the sunrays leaning into the window, shot up to standing and forward just as Poldark’s eyelashes flickered under scrunched up brows and a pair of hazy brown eyes appeared, squinting at nothing in particular.

 “Captain Poldark, can you hear me?” Jim was already by the bedside, checking Poldark’s pulse manually and then taking a moment to send a quick message to Silver. It could take a while for someone to fully emerge from the abyss of anesthesia sleep, and Jim let the man take his time.

He kept his volume low, speaking just enough to let the captain know someone was there, he watched as Poldark blinked and struggled to orient himself in the unfamiliar surroundings. He appeared calm, even if a bit confused: only his heartrate seemed to increase a little as he fought for consciousness. Jim wondered what mental leaps he must be going through on the inside: sometimes memories and awareness returned in a slow trickle and sometimes they all flooded back at once.

“Captain Poldark.” Jim leaned closer, watching him closely. “How are you feeling?”

“Where am I?” the man said, turning his head towards Jim. His voice carried a sense of depth even though it sounded raspy and faint right now. Jim would give him water soon to ease his dry mouth, but first the patient needed to be fully awake.

“You’re at RAAH 8,” Jim replied. “They brought you in last night on a transport - well, technically, it was this morning. I’m your attending nurse for now, you can call me Jim. Are you in any pain right now, Captain?”

Frowning harder, Poldark’s eyes finally shed the blurry sheen of sleep and zoomed in on Jim. A flicker of surprise reflected in the brown irises as he took in Jim’s appearance, and Jim considered saying something to reassure the man he was not hallucinating his hair color.

Captain Poldark, understandably, had more pressing matters on his heart. “RAAH… 8? Is that… did they… take my men here too?”

Jim bit his lip. So, they were going to do this right away. Just as well.

“Yes,” he said. “They brought them here along with you.”

Poldark seemed to relax a little at that, but it only lasted a second. He lifted his head with a grunt, and was readying himself to speak again when Jim beat him to it.

“How are you feeling?” he said. “Is there pain anywhere that I can help you with?”

Poldark ignored the questions and followed Jim’s movements as he was being assessed. “Where are they? My men. Who’s here?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Jim said. “All of the survivors came in here last night, though, that’s all I know right now.”

Poldark stiffened at the word ‘survivors’. His arms shifted on the bed, but he didn’t seem to notice that one of them was quite altered.

“How many?” he insisted, and despite another groan he tried to raise his head and shoulders off the bed once more. “How many of them made it?”

Jim lifted his head. Reluctant to give the answer he had, he busied himself with the captain’s blanket. “Please stay calm and don’t move just yet,” he said. “Are you warm? I can fetch another blanket if you’re chilly.”

The question went unanswered once more, but when Jim looked up, the captain’s eyes had gained on a new intensity; the one mirroring his picture in the news article. “How many?” he repeated, breathing through his nose now.

Jim exhaled, then capitulated. The man had the right to know, and getting worked up over not being told was not going to serve him well. Jim knew the answer and was at a liberty to tell him; he’d learned over time that it was best to give bad news quickly rather than put it off. The proverbial band-aid ripping was true and he was not about to waste his patient’s energy with stalling.

“Six men,” he said, pausing his work. “Including you.”

The blow landed hard. Poldark’s handsome features grew blank at first, and then turned into a mask of abject horror. “Six?” he said forcefully, and it tipped him into a coughing fit. When he recovered, he still gazed at Jim with the same desperate incredulity. “That’s it?”

Jim nodded. “I’m sorry.” He lowered his head as the captain’s eyes filled with tears of acute grief. “I’ll fetch you some water, captain, your throat must be dry.” He stepped to the side table under the window and pulled a bottle of water from its cabinet, then filled a paper cup halfway and inserted a long, flexible straw. He was just about to put the bottle back away when behind him, the hospital bed shifted and creaked, followed by a hiss of pain and rustling of sheets.

Jim whipped around. He was met with the sight of his patient heaving himself up to sitting, tendons standing out on his neck and a look of wild determination on his face. He swore and promptly dropped both cup and bottle, leaping towards the bed the captain seemed to be attempting to vacate.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Jim shouted in alarm. He caught the captain around the waist just as the man tried to swing his legs, one of them heavily bandaged and set in a supportive brace, over the side rail of the bed.

“I have to go see them,” Poldark wheezed. “I have to know who is here-“

He nearly fell against his injured arm as he strained to get out of Jim’s firm hold.

Jim set his jaw, not about to budge.

“Are you out of your mind?!” he hissed. Luckily, Poldark was weakened from surgery, but it still took considerable effort to keep him on the bed. “You’ve just been in surgery for six hours so they could save your leg. You get on that foot and you will undo all of it! Not to mention the injuries to your arm-”

Captain Poldark didn’t seem to hear, busy making a renewed, though more feeble, attempt at leaving.

Then, just as Jim wondered whether he could reach his pager while still keeping Poldark from hurting himself, he felt him sag back in his hold. Jim guided him back down on the bed; Poldark’s eyes were tightly closed, frustrated tears leaking from underneath.

“What have I done?” he whispered. “Good God…”

Jim swallowed the remark that God had nothing to do with anything and instead chose to speak in soothing tones. He still wouldn’t release the man though, not until he was sure there would be no other attempts at escaping.

“I know this is extremely upsetting, Captain. But you are not in any state to walk anywhere. You’ve sustained massive injuries and it is absolutely necessary that you stay off your feet and heal.”

All strength and fight seemed to have drained out of the man now. He was breathing harshly from the physical effort, his forehead covered with a sheen of sweat. “I failed them… I failed my whole company…”

Jim said nothing, pushing back a wave of sympathy that rolled over him at the sight of such deep remorse. He had no idea what had happened at the entry point and would not dare pronounce any sort of judgement or empty consolation. Besides, he had his own duties to consider: he was overdue to page the doctor and he would be expected to mention the captain had attempted to leave his bed.

But if the doctor found out, they’d either restrain Poldark or give him a strong sedative again. And that didn’t seem right; the man was mad with grief already and strapping him to the bed would be an insult on top of injury. What was more, the potentially self-destructive and erratic behavior would be noted in his medical records and would do him no favors down the line, especially with an impending probe into last night’s disastrous events.

The man was understandably upset, but Jim could see that his concern seemed to be only for his men; he hadn’t even asked about himself yet.

Ben’s words from yesterday echoed in Jim’s mind, and he remembered what he had promised the transport worker. Hands still around Poldark's torso, he decided now was the time for the only, partial consolation he could offer.

“The staff that brought you in wants you to know that they did take care of your men first. As you requested.” Though ‘requested’ seemed too mild a word for the vehemence Jim could now easily imagine Poldark had used.

Poldark nodded in acknowledgment. Jim straightened up, thinking quickly; he was still loath to report the incident, but he had to make sure Poldark would remain calm.

“If I find out which of your men have survived, will you promise not to try this again?”

The brown eyes opened and the look of unconcealed devastation in them hit Jim straight in the chest. “Can you?”

Jim replied without hesitation. “Yes, I should be able to.” Strictly speaking, that information was none of Jim’s business, but it wasn't illegal; he had access to the patient database and it would take only a little bit of probing. “But if you try to pull of something like this one more time, I will have to inform the doctor and they will use whatever methods they deem necessary to keep you from hurting yourself.”

Poldark gave Jim a dark look. It was clear he understood what those methods might be and that despite the apparent lack of concern for his own outcome, he strongly disliked the idea of being restrained.

Jim held his gaze, not intimidated by the fierce scrutiny in the least.

And grudgingly, Poldark acquiesced.

“Fine. I promise I won’t. Just… find out for me, please.”

“You got it.” Jim removed his hands from the Captain’s warm body, making sure he was reasonably comfortable and hadn’t done anything to his wounds. Then he wiped the spilled water off the floor and poured a new cup.

He paged the doctor, all the while keeping an eye on his patient who now lay there quite defeated in the blue sheets, eyes tightly closed and a look of complete capitulation on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Thoughts/comments are much appreciated <3


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